


Behind the Yellow Curtain

by NaturalEvil



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Amputation Kink, Cheating, Choking, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 15:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaturalEvil/pseuds/NaturalEvil
Summary: “They’re still demons, sweetheart. They don’t have the same kind of morals that we do. They don’t feel the same kind of guilt, the same kind of fear, or regret, or shame. Similar, sure, no doubt about it. But diluted, maybe. Watered down so that it doesn’t hurt so much when they do things like...that.”





	Behind the Yellow Curtain

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't even want to write this, I just wanted to read it, you know? (Because I crave the DantexNero action and I know ya'll do too) So you guys'll have to read it for me, okay?

They were doing it. They were actually doing it…

And the worst part was that Nico actually saw it this time. She saw it with her own two eyes and couldn’t lie to herself anymore…

Though to be perfectly honest, she had been suspecting this for a while now, but there were parts of her that simply didn’t want to believe it. Call it stubbornness, call it cowardice, call it yellow-bellied spinelessness or fear. Call it being so fucking stupid as to wanting to believe the best in somebody, even when that somebody was a literal goddamn demon. (Well, _part_ literal goddamn demon, but still a demon none-the-less)

A glimpse was more than enough for her to piece together what was being done, and it didn’t look too comfortable, up against an alleyway wall like that. (Missionary, Puritanical, hole–in–the-sheet bullshit, made unclean and dirty by what they were and where they stood) Needless to say, she felt like she had seen too much.

Nico only yanked the daffodil-colored curtain back down over the vans rear window and left it like that. Abandoning the two of them, half-clothed and moving together far on the other side; out in the scalding hot darkness of the early morning.

Her hands trembled and shook as she gripped at the edge of the sink to steady them, her forgotten cigarette smoldering down to the filter, dangerously close to her inked knuckles that were beaded with pearls of cold sweat.

Still, she couldn’t feel the heat. She couldn’t feel the stinging pain as the cherry-red ash crumbled and fell down onto her skin. (And even if she did, why would she care?) All she could acknowledge was this tight and bitter churning deep inside of her stomach, inside of her heart. Nico felt so sick. She was sure that she was going to throw up right then and there.

_Foolish thing. You foolish, foolish thing._

She thought she knew Nero, her best friend, her partner, (in both business and crime) but bearing witness to _that_ had filled her with doubt. It made her wonder if she really knew anything about him at all. If she had been running around and risking her life and hard-work for a total stranger, a nobody, some gutter-whore piece of shit with the lowly morals of a maggot.

Nico was silent as she brushed her sleep-knotted hair out of her face and let out a harsh long sigh, sending out tendrils of cloudy smoke to curl up through the air around her like a dragons’ final breath. She closed her eyes as the remnants of her cigarette fell down into the sink, still glowing with steam, still warming the air with its waning life. Removing her glasses without a sound, she wiped them on the hem of her old band t-shirt, telling herself that she couldn’t deny it anymore.

That it just wasn’t right. That she wasn’t being fair. Not to herself, and definitely not to poor Kyrie.

_I bet you don’t suspect a thing, do you Honey?_

The morning world nothing more than an empty dark blur, Nico felt tears sink their teeth deep into the corners of her eyes as she slipped her glasses back on, wiping her nose with her burnt knuckle that was cracked and blistering a tender pink already.

But that pain in her hand was slight, easily forgiven. As her cigarettes were the only things keeping her calm, keeping her sane and grounded. Like a reasonable friend, they held her back, kept her from stomping right outside, hands on her hips Wonder Woman style, shouting and screaming and cussing at the both of them until she was red in the face and they went whiskey limp from the shame.

Shaking her head, she pulled out another cigarette from the crumpled pack to light, bending down low over the sink so that the tear-drop flame of her Zippo would not be seen from beyond the window.

As she let the smoke rust and corrode her insides, Nico looked up at the curtain again, studied the bright sunny color that seemed almost ridiculous now, so childish and out of place in a world that was headed straight down into the darkest depths of Hell.

She was quiet as she reached up, rubbing and tugging and really feeling the softness of the cloth in between her work-roughened fingers. Massaging the tiny bumps from the little red tulips stitched into the seams, a simple design, like something that you would find in a coloring book.

It was kind of funny, but it also wasn’t, how all of those little details seemed to jump out at her now, details that she hadn’t paid much attention to before, even back when it was given to her.

Nico remembered when Kyrie had made that curtain for her, not just that one but every single curtain in the van. Surprised her with it as a little ‘thank you’ for letting her and Nero stay at the garage; for welcoming them into her life when they had no one to depend on and nowhere else to go.

Nico almost grinned at the recollection, as through those twisted spirals of smoke she saw Kyrie’s bright yet nervous smile, saw the way those fawn-brown eyes looked down sheepishly at her feet as the gift was presented with an almost girlish timidity, the vision so clear, it was as if she were standing right in the van with her…

But then—

(and only then)

The mere _thought_ of what was happening on the other side of that little yellow curtain, (Frantic breathing, three hands groping with a desperate urgency, shirts pulled up and pants pushed down) flashed in pieces through Nico’s mind.

It curdled the memory, turned Kyrie’s buttercream smile as sour as spoiled milk, it made the yellow fabric feel just about as soothing and gentle as a kitchen knife dancing down the road of your wrist. 

It made her want to slam her hands down onto the sink and curse at the top of her voice, hoping that that unfaithful son of a bitch would hear her, hear her and feel his blood run cold.

And whether for a miserable need of comfort or the self-shaming kind of torture, Nico thought back to times that were simple, and plain, and genuine. Taking in long harsh pulls of her cigarette, her mind rewound to those first few months of the three of them living together.

How she and Nero had hit it off immediately, thick as thieves, they became official partners in their branch of a demon hunting business called Devil May Cry. How excited he was when he showed her the sign, large and neon blue, ready to be plugged in and mounted just about anywhere. (Though she already had a pretty good idea as to where it could go)

How happy she had been.

To not only have decent help in the garage (finally!) but to also have somebody badass enough to come along to put her skills to a legitimate use. To kick all sorts of ass and give her the true creative freedom to do what she was always meant to do. Neros’ weapons, the Red Queen and the Blue Rose, they were tough already, but with a little love and a lot of elbow grease, Nico made them tougher.    

And his girlfriend Kyrie, (soft and shy and as fragile as a paper flower) was far too meek and modest for Nicos’ liking, especially at first.

(But none of that was her fault, really it wasn’t)

Kyrie…

Nico shook her head at the thought of her, wiping her eyes that suddenly felt so wet. 

A girl who was so sweet, so fucking sweet that she made sugar look like shit.

An undercover angel, she was the pretty-faced and tender-hearted type that would leave saucers of milk and cans of tuna outside the garage for the stray alley cats. (no matter how many times Nico told her not to) Calling out to them with a few short kisses that were ignored; loving and naming each and every one of them, even though they hissed and spat and hated it when she tried to get close to them.

A girl who had probably spent every night that Nico and Nero were away worrying herself half to death over the two of them; making herself sick with both hopefulness and fear. Crying herself to sleep in their dark, empty apartment, praying to an old dead god with her hands clasped tight around her little golden necklace like it was Nero’s own precious hand to hold.

Nico took out another cigarette to light, having smoked the other one all the way down to the filter without even realizing it, letting it fall from her fingers down into the sink, her knuckle bleeding now.

She recalled that even after Nero introduced her and Kyrie to each other, they didn’t take to one another much. Neither of them really knowing any of the right things to do or say. Only exchanging pleasant enough hellos and having a few empty conversations about the weather or dinner after the day had come to an end. But mostly they just stayed out of each others’ way.

(Which was fine, Nico liked it that way)  

It was so painfully obvious now, but at the time Nico didn’t realize that Kyrie was afraid of her, intimidated by her. Scared of the tattoos and the constant smoking, her sailor’s mouth and the heavy metal music that was sometimes cranked up so loud that even Nero would tell her to turn it down when he got home.

Nico’s unfamiliar and tomboyish ways, they might as well have belonged to another species entirely. But to be perfectly honest, the redheads discomfort didn’t really bother her all that much, as she figured that maybe that Kyrie saw her as the kind of girl that she was taught all of her life to never associate with.

And amid those first few weeks, Kyrie had mostly kept to herself; tucked away in the background of Nico’s life like a peaches-and-cream scented shadow. And as much as she hated to admit it now, there were days when Nico would actually _forget_ that she was even there, up in the apartment all by her lonesome.

Cooking and cleaning and getting her and Nero’s meager possessions settled in the itty bitty spare bedroom. (Their clothing, some books and documents, as well as an old heart-shaped candy box overflowing with faded family photos)

It was in those days that Nico spent the majority of her time in her garage, (just like any other time, really) It was her castle, her Kingdom, where she was the unquestioned ruler, the Queen Regnant of gears and grease.

During work hours, she was no-nonsense and focused on whatever task was at hand, a carpenter’s pencil keeping her wild hair out of her face and off of her shoulders in a messy bun. (A pencil that she would later tear apart half her work bench trying to find) Screws and nails jutting from her teeth like bobby pins whenever a cigarette was absent or at least in the process of being taken out of the pack to be lit.  

She would spend her whole life in her garage if given a piece of a chance, sketching schematics for Nero’s gun or sword, ordering parts, working on the van; bringing one idea after another to life. Deaf and blind to the world around her, ignorant of when Kyrie would quietly slip into her domain to leave offerings of turkey sandwiches, thermoses of hot coffee, or bottles of cold water, all of which would go unconsumed. Nico not even knowing that they were there, even after the sun began to set.

Nero would be gone for long hours as well, out and about on hunting jobs that were given to him over the phone by a man named Morrison, Dante’s own personal agent. Gigs, Nero liked to call them, like he was a musician or something.  

Though if a call did not come, those were the days where Nero would help Nico out in the garage, speeding things up and bugging her about the parts for his weapons. (how many parts did you order? Which adjustments did you make? How’s this for an idea? Can I see the schematic again?)

He was the best help she had had in a while, so she tolerated him whenever he complained about how bad her cigarettes smelled, or ignored how many water breaks he took as an excuse to go and have a quick conversation up in the air-conditioned apartment with his girlfriend.  

At the end of those days, she and Nero, sweaty and tired, would somehow manage to conjure up the energy to race each other up the stairs, regardless if dinner was ready or not. Arguing and laughing and elbowing each other playfully over who got to be served first. Dinner simmering away on the stove, the table set, the silverware shining.

Nico tossed her cigarette down into the sink with a heartfelt “Damn!” Having lost her appetite for it so suddenly.

_Damn…_

She remembered how it was maybe a little over a month after they had moved in. Kyrie had already done all of the laundry and put on a roast for dinner that night. (A dinner that, with one taste, Nico was certain that she had died and gone to heaven) And it wasn’t even noon.

The girl was fidgety and restless, with Nero having been gone before she had woken up, who had left her without a kiss or a note or even whispering a goodbye. She had also come down with a mild case of cabin-fever and hadn’t realized it, being stuck inside one new and still-strange place for so long.

How uncomfortable and small she had looked when she stepped into the garage. As quiet as a house mouse and twice as meek, she asked if Nico needed help with anything, her nervous baby-soft hands clutching at that jeweled necklace.

Nico, up to her neck with this and that, just gave Kyrie a toothy smile and quick impatient nod, motioning for her to come forward, figuring that she couldn’t screw up anything too important. “Alright Honey, you wanna help out? Then c’mon and help.”  

Needless to say, that first hour in the garage was nothing short of a disaster. Like trying to teach a blossom how to be a blowtorch.

Kyrie not being able to do so much as tell a Philips head screwdriver from a flathead screwdriver, no matter how many times she was shown. Nico being left with her empty hand hovering in the air, waiting as long as five minutes for Kyrie to fetch her that damned wrench, always forgetting which size was which, (3/4 or 7/8?) and bringing back one that was always too big or too small. A little too frightened to ask for the sixth time which size it was that Nico had asked for again?

It went on like that a lot longer than either of them cared for.

Finally, Nico could hardly take it anymore, and was certain that she had more work to do than what she had started with. Just about ready to pull all of her hair out over that mousy chorus girl that kept tripping her up and slowing her down.

A girl who only meant well, and really was just trying her best.

She ended up giving Kyrie the kind of jobs that you would give a small child to keep them still and quiet and out of your way. Sorting nuts and bolts, screws and nails, picking up trash, and sweeping the floor. Which Kyrie would do with the kind of good-natured patience that you’d only read about in fairytales. 

She would hum while she worked, possessing the kind of voice that was polished and well-cared for, treated like the priceless gift that it was. (Nico half-expected cutesy forest animals to show up and start cleaning at the sound of it.)

She was quiet as she smiled at the recollection, even as her throat felt so thick that she could hardly swallow.

That time stuck out to her like the spark from a lightning bug, as it was not only the slowest work day she had ever had, but it was also the first time that she and Kyrie had ever really spoken to one another. Not just simple hellos and good nights but actually conversed, and had their first heart-to-heart that day.  

Kyrie had confided in her, in need of someone to talk to besides herself, about something that had been bothering her for a long, long time. She had stopped mid-sweep, the pile of dirt and old cigarette butts collected near her feet, the tips of her shoes stained with dust.

Nico, hair down her back, carpenter pencil in hand as she sketched out the barrel modification for the Blue Rose, only looked up from the drawing, (which was a miracle in and of itself) an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth like a lollipop stick.

Certain that she was being listened to, Kyrie finally said that she sometimes wished that Nero had a normal job.

“One that wasn’t so dangerous,” She had mumbled, her hands wrapped tight around the handle of the broom she was holding, eyeing the schematic Nico was drawing like the weapon was tangible and fully loaded, pointed right at her.

A job that didn’t make her jump with worry every time the phone rang. A job that didn’t make her voice shake when she told Nero that she loved him whenever he stepped out the door to face the day. (A sentiment that he sometimes forgot to acknowledge)

A job where he didn’t need a gun or a sword, and didn’t have to come home with blood on his face and holes in his clothes from the claws of demons. 

“It’s so strange,” Kyrie had said. She had been around him, around demon hunting, her entire life. So she should be used to this by now, right? There’s no excuse, no excuse at all.  

But still, there were parts of her that wanted to live a quiet life, a life away from the violence, away from the fighting; away from demons, (she was hoping that that would be the case as soon as they fled Fortuna) but please, please, _please,_ don’t tell Nero she said any of that.

(It would break his heart if he knew)

Nico recalled how those softly words were expressed, with the lulling reluctance of someone who was finally spilling out a secret. A dirty and diseased secret that had been rotting them from the inside out for so much longer than they thought they could stand. 

Hating how she was never any good with this emotional stuff, Nico had sat at her work bench in a dumbfounded silence, her cigarette having fallen out of her mouth and down onto the schematic, bits of tobacco scattered across the paper.

Kyrie had seemed to shrink back into herself with dismay, looking like she had said too much, shared too much, and wanted right then to take it all back. 

But Nico only nodded and grinned. She said that she understood, and that her lips were sealed. “Don’t worry Honey, I won’t tell a soul. Cross your heart and mine, alright? Your secret’s safe with me.”

Which, as simple as her words were, it seemed as if all at once, Kyrie’s anxiousness had been eased. The tightness in her shoulders soothed and her grip relaxed on the broom handle. She had sighed, her chestnut eyes fluttered close with the trace of a smile.

 And just like that, Speak of the Devil; Nero had walked right into the garage. It was so late in the day, time had fled from them like a rabbit darting through the underbrush.

Nico remembered how Kyrie lightened up when she laid eyes on him, like a storybook princess looking at her knight in shining armor. Glowing with an ‘Oh Romeo’ adoration, she went over and gave him a big sweet kiss on his cheek, the broom still clutched in her hands. Nico only smiled, and bent her head down to get back to her drawing.  

It was funny to her, how Nero and Kyrie acted, so young, but it was like they were already married, and had been so for years.

Sometimes, after dinner was eaten and the dishes were washed, she would go to bed early to give them the alone-time that all young couples needed. The two of them cuddling together on the couch like they were on a date; her head rested against his shoulder, as sweet and content as they could be. Nero’s glowing devil fingers laced together with Kyrie’s human fingers like the stems of a daisy chain, watching Disney movies without a care in the world besides one another.

Those times were innocent, as innocent as what could be allowed for the two of them. For all of them.  

Nico sighed pitifully at the memory, her mind still spinning as she tried to think of reasons for Nero’s behavior, made assumption after assumption, searched high and low through every dusty corner of her mind for meaning in the meaningless.

Thinking that maybe it was a wild and uncontrollable urge, not quite a need but something like it, a craving. A craving to be dominated, to be taken and treated like a desperate bitch in heat by someone who was stronger than he could ever hope to be.

A kind of scent-thing, like pheromones or an animal hierarchy; something intense, something pure, something demonic. Like how Morrison had explained during his first and last visit to their garage.

(with Dante in tow)

It was expected, as Morrison had the courtesy to call ahead and announce his arrival a few days in advance, though for whatever reason, he did not mention Dante at all.

(Or was it Nero who didn’t mention him?)

Nico remembered how Kyrie had fretted, cleaned the apartment over and under even though it was already spotless. Wondered what she would cook, asking Nico for her input, wanting to plan out a menu, sending Nero out on three separate trips to the store for ingredients.

With how she acted, you would have thought that royalty were coming to visit.

“She used to be like this in Fortuna, about guests and stuff like that.” Nero had admitted to Nico as he set the bags down on the counter. “But I think she’s a little excited. She likes having people over, it’s been a while. I think this would be good for her.” How he smiled when he said that.

 Then the day, which was just like any other, had arrived along with their guests; and what a duo they made.

Morrison, an older gentleman, had the aura of someone who could read your whole life story just from the title. See every single thought in your head, whether you spoke it aloud or kept it to yourself.

Dante, the infamous Son of Sparda, was a silver fox through and through. A walking disaster who would carry a flask around in his coat pocket and give you a nip or two if you batted your eyelashes and asked him nicely enough.

When Nico first saw Dante, (she was not only so starstruck that she couldn’t even remember her own name) but was also incredibly astonished at how much he and Nero looked alike.

Like father and son, cut from the same cloth, forbidden fruit that had fallen from the branches of the same tree. From the hair color to the arrogance to damn-near everything else, the resemblance between the both of them was undeniable.

Anybody with eyes could see it.

She remembered asking Nero, whispering in his ear as she bumped his shoulder with hers, if he had ever thought that Dante was his long-lost Daddy. She guessed that she should have worded it differently, or at least paid closer attention to how quickly his ears had turned red. How he only wiped his nose with his Devil Bringer and looked away without saying anything in response, clearing his throat like he was about to deliver a big speech.

How could she have been so fucking blind?     

“Whoa, looks half Mad-Max, half Mystery Machine! I love it!” The way Dante grinned when Nero showed him the van they had been working so hard on, the way his face shined when he rustled the younger’s hair like a proud father, Nico decided right then that she liked him.

Kyrie, a little shy and lingering like a ghost girl in the doorway, was quiet. But when Nero introduced her, his devil’s arm wrapped protectively around her waist; she perked up with a fresh-baked warmth, more than polite to both Morrison and Dante.

Offering to give them a tour of the garage and the apartment, had said that she had coffee up stairs and would they like to join her?

But then Nero told her that he and Dante were going out to answer a gig, and would be back soon.

Nico remembered how the lines of worry seemed to ripple through Kyrie when she heard that. That little “Huh?” that had slipped out of her, like a chirp or a squeak.  

He hadn’t told her that he had a job, that he was leaving. Now? But they had company…

But he only gave her a kiss on the cheek and a quick nod to Morrison before heading out, shoulder to shoulder with Dante.

Nico, not wanting to pass an opportunity of a lifetime to see the Son of Sparda in action, wanted to go with them. (She had a right!)  To see her weapons in action, to see if there were any adjustments or improvements that needed to be made. Nero caved in, figuring that she would be safe with Dante there, she had guessed. 

She followed them out onto the job, trying to be cool but almost dogging their heels in excitement, as eager as a groupie given the opportunity to finally see her favorite band live.  

And to say that it was the most exciting thing she had ever seen would have been an understatement. It was better than any gun show, any tattoo convention, or rock concert that she had ever been to.

Nero seemed to be at the tip-top of his game, his Devil Bringer glowing brighter than Nico had ever seen it, revving his sword like he was ready to take on Hell in its entirety. His grin twisted, his eyes glittering as bright as an electric blue spark about to catch fire and spread across the whole world.

For Nico, being able to witness first-hand how Dante fought, it was like seeing fine art in motion, every story she had ever been told being brought to life right in front of her.

She would have never thought a man like that could be so graceful and flawless in his movements, a biker as elegant as a ballet dancer. The way he moved, the way he stepped and used his sword, his guns, (Grandmama’s guns!) his hands (Lord, those hands!) to hit and strike, it was beyond incredible.   

Dante was so carefree, and had even made a game out of the hunt with Nero. Seeing how many demons each of them could slay, making Nico their official scorekeeper.

“One! Two! Ten! C’mon Kid, keep up!”

“Shut up, Old Man! I’m already at twelve!”  

They were both lying, as they had only killed six each at the time, neck to neck.

Nico almost laughed at how ridiculous it was, people’s lives being endangered and ruined by those monsters that Dante and Nero treated like broken toys they found in the trash to further torment; busted baseballs to bash or limbless action figures to curb stomp to smithereens.

But out of all of that, the flashy excitement and the pride she felt from seeing her modifications pack more than just a southpaw’s punch, there was only one thing that rubbed her the wrong way; made her insides feel small.

It was the smack they talked, as tender and juicy as a fresh cut of steak, all of it sounded more like bad teenage flirting than anything else.

“C’mon Dante, don’t tell me you’re goin’ soft on me!”

“Keep up that lip punk, and I’m gonna have to put you in your place!”

But they were just messing around, right? Getting lost in the heat of the moment? Nico had thought so, but was soon proven wrong.  

Nero, a little too sure of himself, a little too busy jumping around for Dante’s attention, his approval, had ended up getting hurt. It wasn’t too serious; she remembered how he had laughed away her concern as the gash on the side of his head painted over half of his face red. The way his blood looked, it reminded her of freshly dipped candy apple, thick and dripping shiny down to his chin, not looking real at all.

Dante said that it was fine, that it was cool; you couldn’t get out of every single fight unscathed. He was so nonchalant, so ‘meh’ about the whole thing, it was like he didn’t even care at all. But the way he was looking at Nero, the way his pale eyes glittered with their own earnest light, it seemed as if he liked how the younger looked, dripping with his favorite color.  

They found a water fountain, Nero scrubbed the blood off as best he could, the water running red and soupy. Nico remembered how Dante had walked over and rustled Nero’s hair as he had done before, but looking like he was hurting more than he was helping.  And then…

Dante had tried to be quick about it, the way he tucked his finger into his mouth, sucking on it like how you would taste a paper cut. That little moan he made, that little ‘mmm’ sound that people make when they’re eating something absolutely divine. It sounded like he was tasting something sweet, something delicious.

(It was just a sample, a small one, but he would not mind having it again)

Nico saw him and heard him, but pretended that she did not. (and still does not know why)   

Back at the garage, they heard Kyrie talking as they headed upstairs to the apartment, the sound of silverware clattering as she set the table, the offerings of more coffee to Morrison, the polite refusal of his help with literally anything. Locked and loaded in full hostess mode, so happy to have a guest to pamper and entertain.

The five of them huddled around the tiny table for dinner; plates piled high with meatloaf and mashed potatoes and peas and carrots. Everybody complimenting the food, laughing, and joking. Asking for the salt or pepper, can you pass the rolls? And more napkins please.

Then one thing happened, one tiny little harmless thing happened. A butterfly-effect of a blunder.

Nico dropped her napkin on accident, crumpled and stained with ketchup; it fell to her feet rolled away. She bent down to pick it up, having to stick her head under the table to get to it.

For whatever reason, through that forest of legs, she looked up. She looked up and saw Nero and Kyrie holding hands under the table, which was a given, normal; just about as astonishing as learning that water was wet and the sky was blue and that there were these things called birds that liked to fly.

But then something else caught her eye, a flicker of movement so fast that she had thought she had imagined it. How Dante’s biker-gloved hand had pulled away from Nero’s thigh, quick but not quick enough.

That was all she needed to see.

Quickly and quietly, Nico only swiped up her napkin and wiped her hands, sat back up and straightened it out on her lap. Her face blank as she pretended that she hadn’t seen anything, an open book snapped shut and put up on a high shelf. Pretended not to notice how Nero’s ears blushed red and Dante’s lips twitched with a cocky smirk.

She did not have to drop her napkin to know that his hand was on Nero’s thigh again.

And suddenly, dinner didn’t taste so good anymore.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Morrison had asked her later that evening, noticing how hard her hands shook when she struggled to light her cigarette, her Zippo not working the way that she had wanted it to. The both of them seated in her garage for an after-dinner smoke, everyone else up in the apartment with their after-dinner coffee.

 “Cause, you look like you just saw a ghost under that table.” The old man grinned as a long and twisted gauze of smoke fell from his mouth, and tossed her his box of matches.

Nico could tell that Morrison was the kind of man who knew people, inside and out, without having to even talk to them. He had to, with what he did for a living, who he dealt with.  

Nico, her hands still shaking, had wasted three of his matches before she finally managed to light her cigarette. Having a feeling that he knew something about what was going on, she cracked. Nico told him about what she saw. About the hunt and Nero’s injury, what she had seen under the table, Dante’s hand groping his thigh.

But she could be thinking too hard, right? What she saw could have been a smudge on her glasses maybe, a trick of the light?

Even now, Nico only remembered what he had told her in snippets, snatches and pieces. Words and sentences and more words. But as she tried to piece them together, she recalled how sad Morrison had looked as he spoke. How tired, how exhausted, like he wasn’t surprised. Like everything in the world, no matter how terrible or shocking, was all old news that had been done a thousand times before, and would be done a thousand times more.

“They’re still demons, sweetheart. They don’t have the same kind of morals that we do. They don’t feel the same kind of guilt, the same kind of fear, or regret, or shame. Similar, sure, no doubt about it. But diluted, maybe. Watered down so that it doesn’t hurt so much when they do things like...that.”

“I mean, they can talk the talk and walk the walk, but we still don’t understand them. I don’t understand Dante and I’ve known him for over twenty long years. And don’t get me wrong, I’m certain that Nero loves that little gal in there with all his heart and soul. Loves her more than anything that this life has to offer.”

“And you got to understand something Nico, there are going to be parts of him that no full-blooded human will ever be able to touch. And the worst part of that is that it’s nobody’s fault. You don’t have agree with it or understand it or support it. I know I sure as hell don’t.” 

“But you wanna go and get in between them? Tell them you saw everything and tie yourself up in all the ugliness that’s sure to follow? Go right on ahead. Be my guest.”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

With the tip of the yellow curtain pulled back, Nico forced herself to watch.

Still going at it, still going at it, Dante gutting Nero with his manhood, holding him up using only his hips, keeping the younger’s legs gapped open like a woman’s. Pressing him against the brick wall like he was trying to keep him from getting away; not letting him budge a single inch.

Nero’s one hand pinned against the bricks, his fingers twitching and then digging into his palms and then opening up to twitch feebly again, like he had given up all control and didn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

His legs and thighs, visible and paler than bleached bone, were wrapped around Dante’s waist as he was being fucked. His underwear dangling off one ankle, looking like it was about to slip off onto the ground.

He was helpless and vulnerable, but looking like he was loving every second of it, being dominated, being used. Chewing his lips, closing his eyes and gasping, getting nailed in a place that was as dirty as he really was on the inside; in mind and heart and soul.

Nico watched with a feeling of detached numbness as Dante leaned in close to what was left of Nero’s arm, dipping his tongue into that ugly puckered scar like it was a reluctant mouth meant for him (and only him) to kiss and taste.

Then she heard Nero speak, but not really. His words garbled by the distance, by the window and the yellow curtain. A meaningless little sentence that meant less than nothing to her, (it was only a word or two) but it seemed to capture Dante’s attention completely, pulling his focus away from Nero’s stunted limb. The younger’s words having him ensnared and trapped, put under an even darker spell.

A growl was the only thing Dante gave in response, deep and guttural with a mad beastliness, a low and harsh sound that sent shivers down Nico’s spine even though it was not meant for her.   

And then, like his life had been threatened or his actions belittled, Dante shoved his elbow right up against Nero’s throat and kept it there. (was this a punishment or a reward?)

Crushing the younger into the wall, still fucking into him like it was going to be the last screw of his life. Each thrust looking like it was supposed to hurt Nero, to make his guts bruise and ache, to turn that intimate part of him into a weeping and bloody open wound.

In that position, she realized, he couldn’t do anything to stop Dante, even if he wanted to, even if he needed to. His one arm made useless, his voice crumpled up and thrown away like it was garbage, his skull looking like it was about to be separated from his spine.  

Dante could do whatever he wanted.

(Hell, he _was_ doing whatever he wanted)

She looked as Nero’s legs only spasm and tightened around Dante’s waist, his ankles linking together, his toes curling and uncurling and twitching.

Then she heard what sounded like gasping or whimpering or maybe a helpless gurgling rattle.

Maybe he was trying to say ‘no’, maybe he was trying to say ‘stop.’

But he could have also been saying ‘more’. He could have been saying ‘harder’.

Dante’s arm, (muscular and laced with the kind of thick veins that you’d find in the neck of a wild stallion) only pressed tighter against Nero’s throat, the noise cut off so suddenly that Nico thought that his neck had been snapped.      

_That’s okay. That’s alright._

She surprised herself with that thought.

Feeling like an accomplice, a silent spectator to a snuff film, like she was standing on the set of a violent pornography that nobody wanted any part in; Nico wondered if Nero was even worth killing.

Though he was being killed, murdered, slain, in that metaphorical kind of way at least. She was witnessing the death of the person that she thought he was; the doting boyfriend, her best friend, Kyrie’s knight in shining armor.

_No matter how much or how little, they’re both still demons at heart. Something like this was bound to happen, right? Once there’s nothing left to kill, once the laughter dies out, once the sex comes to an end, they turn on each other, don’t they?_

She watched, feeling nothing as Dante felt everything and climaxed, like a human, like any other man who had ever walked the earth. Milked out all he had into the squirming warm body in front of him with a few final sloppy thrusts, his arm finally falling from Nero’s throat, but not by conscious choice.

The younger’s mind seemed to have turned into fluid, like an egg yolk that had been broken open, his thoughts draining out thick and messy. Were Dante not holding him up, he would have fallen, collapsed down into a quivering heap of limbs and muscle.

And as still as he was during those long moments, she thought he was either dead or dying. But then she saw him gasp, take in a large gulp of air, and start to cough. His head tilted back and turned towards the window, white froth falling from his mouth like battery acid, like rabies or scum. He looked diseased, he looked insane.   

Then Dante, maybe wanting to keep him quiet, maybe wanting just a little bit more than what he already had, silenced the younger. Grabbing him by his chin and forcing him to give into an even sweeter surrender

Nico watched as they kissed, even though it wasn’t really a kiss. It looked too deep to be just that, too vulgar and voluptuous, a hungry bite without the teeth. One mouth against another, she heard them moan even though she knew that she couldn’t. After everything, after all of that, they were still gluttonous for one another.

A fitting end to their bastard love. Their trashed salvation.

(Or maybe it was just the beginning)

She let the yellow curtain fall.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Nico yawned and wiped sleep from her eyes, her muscles aching from having spent the rest of the night curled up in the driver’s seat, her head cushioned against the armrest, her limbs cramped and twisted. She could hear Nero rummaging around at the back of the van, his boots scuffing across the floor, the mini-fridge being opened and then shut.

She sighed as she looked down at the phone that was laying in its cradle, the same phone that she always used to answer Nero’s call and come to his rescue; and thought of Kyrie. She should be up by now, right? She has a right to know about everything, doesn’t she?  

If it were any other couple that Nico had known throughout her life, any other guy in the world, she would not have hesitated or even thought twice about it. But with the phone feeling brick-heavy in her hand, almost too large to hold, something ( _something_ ) had stayed her fingers from dialing the number for the apartment and telling Kyrie everything.

_Dump his sorry ass. Pawn that ugly necklace and—yes, I know you think it’s pretty but the dude who gave it to you is a cheating asshole, so that makes it ugly, okay? And it also means that you need to buy yourself something better. I know this great pawn shop near the garage and—_

It would have gone something like that, Nico thinks. (If she only had the courage)

Hearing Nero’s footsteps coming up behind her, she only set the phone back down in its cradle and straightened up in her seat.

 “Wakey-wakey, Nico!” Nero plopped down beside her fully dressed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to face the day.

_Still basking in the afterglow, huh?_

She tried not to wrinkle her nose, noticing that he had a strange smell about him, a strong one; the kind of musk that only a man could leave on your skin after he’s touched you.

She saw him eating Kyrie’s food, gulping down the last roast beef sandwich, (that had been prepared with so much love) and wanted to reach over and slap it out of his hand. She wanted to tell him to go eat garbage, to go eat shit, with what he was doing to that poor girl who loved him so.

But instead, she was quiet.

Quiet and let the wet noise of his chewing annoy her, his swallowing.

 She took a few sneaky glances at his neck, searching for bruises, (big ones) for scarring, for tooth-marks or dried blood, but of course she didn’t see a single thing. He cleaned himself well after he came back in, and healed so goddamn fast.

The phone rang. The phone rang and Nico nearly jumped out of her skin, reaching over to pick it up only to have Nero beat her to it.  

“Mornin’ Babe!” He said happily as he shoved the last bit of the sandwich into his mouth, licking his fingers.

Kyrie hates being called babe. He knows that.

Listening to how he talked, the pet-names, the declarations of love and how much he missed her, made her want to roll her eyes. It was a farce, how soft and full of concern his voice became when he asked her if her stomach was still bothering her, (Oh, how he wished he could give her a massage!) Fucking lies, all of it.

 And the saddest part was, all of that would have originally made Nico giggle. It would have made her giggle and punch his shoulder and call him a giant sappy lover boy as soon as he hung up the phone.

But after what she forced herself to bear witness to, it only ate Nico’s heart right out of her.

“I miss you so much, Kyrie. You have no idea.”

_Do you Nero? Do you, really?_

Was it shame that made him say those things? Those honey-coated thorns called words? Was it guilt? Could he even feel guilt or shame or anything like that?

 “Here,” Nero said after a few moments as he pushed the phone at Nico. “She wants to say hi.”

_You fucker!_

Nico thought, her face blank, her eyes low as she gently took the phone out of his grasp, letting out a long breath to even her senses. “Rise and shine, Honey.” Nico said softly, fighting to keep her voice steady as she turned away from Nero, bringing her knees up to her chest as she faced towards the window.

Kyrie’s sleepy-headed “Good morning.” nearly snapped her heart in two.

“You holdin’ down the fort alright?” Nico chewed on her lip, swallowing constantly as she eyed her reflection in the window, the dark circles, her tangled hair, she looked like she had been to Hell and back, death warmed over and then run over.

She heard a slight rustle on the other end and knew that Kyrie was struggling to sit up in bed, maybe nodding as a little “mm-hmmm…” slipped out of her tired mouth before yawning.  

Kyrie spoke softly, saying that she was sorry. Because she had been leaving out tuna and water for the stray cats near the garage again, and apologized once more.

Nico forced herself to laugh a little, to smile even more, grateful for the distraction, a little amused. She had to fight to not wipe her eyes. “Girl, I told you not to feed them whiny things!”

Kyrie continued, saying that she was a little worried because she hadn’t seen any of the cats lately, neither the flicking tail nor twitching whisker of a single one. She said how she’d go back and find the cans right where she had left them, untouched and covered in flies and ants.

“Maybe they found somebody else to spoil them, you never know. And I think a lot of those cats are old toms, right? You know how they have a tendency to…wander.” Nero caught her eye in the reflection; he swallowed before looking away, scratching at the side of his neck.     

Wanting to talk but still so tired, the conversation was cut short, a candle blown out. “Love you, Nico. Don’t get hurt, okay?”

“Love you too, Honey.” She replied.

“Love ya, Babe!” Nero leaned over and yelled, eyeing the blister on Nico’s knuckle as she set the phone back down in its cradle.

A bit of basil mayonnaise spotted on the corner of his chin. Nico said nothing as he licked his fingers, pressing her lips, gnashing her teeth when he moaned out a little ‘mmm’.

She lit another cigarette, suckling on it, needing something to keep her quiet.  

She took those emotions she felt, (her rage, her anger) and swallowed them all. Gulped them down until she was sick to her stomach, made them choke on the smoke. Bottle them all up, twist the lid on nice and tight and shove it down under her seat with all of the other useless junk and leave it there to rot.

She could tell him, she could…

(But what good would it do?)

So she didn’t, she only smiled over at him, her knuckle cracked back open, sticking her keys into the ignition, her hand on the stick shift, her boot hovering over the gas pedal, all she said was a sunshine yellow, “Alright, where to?”

**Author's Note:**

> ...i used my last two brain cells to write this.  
>  maybe i should stop being creative for a while...:{


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